101 & Co
by Dances With Pandas
Summary: 101 & company have done the whole 'hero' thing. Now it's time for a well deserved pint in Moriarty's Tavern. -Prequel to Companion Care-
1. Chapter 1

I own nothing…..literally, but in this case I own nothing to do with Fallout 3.

Chapter 1

It was a normal evening at Moriarty's tavern. Charon, Butch and myself were sitting at the bar with Jericho who was regaling us with a story about when he was an interrogator for the raiders, this was all before he came to Megaton. Suffice to say his torture techniques involved, a large bag of mixed nuts, a phillips head screwdriver and an icing bag filled with custard.

It was hilarious.

Anyway, in came a bloke with a stupid beard and ridiculously old fashioned jumper. One of those waste-lander efforts that people wore a lot before nuclear war broke out. He was carrying a large round case. He sat down in the corner and didn't order a drink. An eyebrow or two was raised at the bar but nothing was said.

Then a few minutes later came in another pair in the same silly looking jumpers and sort of mucky, brown wasteland trousers. One of them had a satchel of some kind while the other carried something that made Jericho's eyes light up, a fiddle case. Shortly after another man came in and he had a guitar case followed just a minute or two later by another undesirable with a banjo case.

One of them came up to the bar. "5 glasses of water please, barchappy!" he trilled.

It doesn't matter what century you live in, you never order water in a bar. That's just wrong.

So Moriarty served him with a furrowed brow. Gob took the drinks over to their table on a tray and they sat there talking for a while.

I had my back to them but Jericho could see them from his seat. About 10 minutes later he said "Oh my God, 101. That little prick's after taking out a pair of spoons. And that other fucker has taken a tin whistle out of his satchel."

I looked around. It was true. And the guitar and the fiddle were out of their cases and the banjo was on its way too. There wasn't a moment to be lost.

"Quick!" I shouted. "Get them before it's too late."

So we got up from our seats and rushed over. Butch leapt on the man with the guitar and headbutted him in the face as they fell to the ground. The man's nose burst open in a splatter of blood.

Jericho went straight for the lad with the spoons who was looking around desperately for a way out. A dark stain appeared on the front of his pants just miliseconds before Jericho's fist landed straight on his nose. To make sure there'd be no spoon tapping Jericho snapped all the fingers on his left hand one by one.

Charon took the fiddler to the roof and threw him off whilst Gob raised his armpit to the banjo man who promptly passed out at which point Charon had come back down. He then broke the banjo over his head a few times.

I was left with the tin whistler, who seeing the damage done to his chums, took drastic action. He put the whistle to his mouth.

"You wouldn't dare", I said.

"Try me", he answered. "Come any closer and I'll start some kind of a reel or jig. I swear to you."

"Just put the whistle down and we'll let you go. Come on, put it down. Don't be stupid. There's nobody left to protect you and there's 5 of us."

He backed away, nervously. I moved towards him.

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO COME ANY CLOSER!" he shouted, whistle still in his mouth.

"Ok, Ok. I'll stay here. I won't come any closer", I reassured him.

"I will though" said Moriarty coming from behind the bar just before he smashed a bottle of Vat 69 – cheap as fuck whiskey for the tourists – over his head.

"Whistle that, you fuck", he said.

The one thing we can't stand in this bar is music. Well, at least the music that Three-Dog plays, and nobody likes that. Cause its shite.

After we'd desposited them groaning, moaning and in one case sobbing like a baby on the street outside we sat down and Moriarty poured a round of pints.

"We didn't order a round, Moriarty?" I said, perplexed.

"No bother lads, this one's on me".

I almost cried.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

*Click, click*

"Hands up!"

"What?"

"Hands up, mistah!"

"Well you little lamplighters are off to an early start. You know I'm just here to trade for fungus?"

"We know. But with the Capitol Wasteland in the gwips of a wecession we weckon there'll be less to go awound, so we're getting in eawly."

"I see."

"You have to admire our gumption, so you do."

"I suppose I do."

"We entrepeneurs, so we are."

"How cunning."

"So are you are going to hand over the goods?"

"How old are you?"

"I'm 9 and he's 8."

"Not even in double figures, eh?"

"I'm 10 next week."

"All right then. I've got to give credit where it's due. Your intiative and get-up-and-go is exactly what Big Town will need. I shall reward you accordingly."

"Thanks, mistah!"

"Here's a fat-man and a bottle of vodka."

"Nice one. Come on Bwilly lets go shoot some brahm!"

"You crazy kids."

"See ya, mistah!"


	3. Chapter 3

The little old lady hobbled, her back hunched, around the cramped aisles in the small store. She would pick things up, read the labels carefully, and 'uhm' and 'ahh' softly under her breath for a while. She picked up another light packet of nourishment. She knew she was lucky to of found the store in so much wasteland. The need for food had driven her further and further from home.

Some things she placed into her bag which she struggled to carry around with her, her gnarled, arthritic fingers beginning to ache. Other things she put back onto the shelves. Mostly it was the heavy things she put back, the small luxuries of freshly hunted meat were now gone as the food traps were broken. There was no one left to fix them. She thought about how she would make a cup of hot water when she went home and how she'd put two or three fancy lad snack cakes on her chipped china plate. The plate her husband Jack had found her, when Jack was still alive.

She would sit in her armchair in her little sitting room, the gas heater taking the chill out of her bones, and watch the sun go down. She'd only eat one cake, maybe two, but she would try and play the word games Jack played, to keep her brain active. Just listening to Jack had done that for her, he knew so much, but now she was all on her own she couldn't let herself fade away, much as she wanted to sometimes.

Maybe once a month she would treat herself to some gumdrops, the ones they kept for Jenny and Junior, the children that had been taken away from her. Other than that though it was just necessities. She made radroach stew every morning, maybe half a tinned can of food for her dinner (which she always ate alone in the middle of the day) and the rest of the stew at tea-time. She didn't much feel like cooking these days, what with Jack being gone and everything. Cooking for one was the loneliest thing she could ever think of.

She filled her bag with as much as her frail frame could support, her shoulder gave way in protest and the bag fell to the floor. One of the straps had broken and most of the contents spilled out. She looked at the bag and sighed. That would have to do her for a week, it was getting more and more dangerous to go out and she could carry fewer and fewer items. She didn't mind too much. You get to a certain age and things stop mattering as much as they did when you were younger. Lost in thought she asked herself, 'What do you really need anyway'?

The little old lady grumbled and then tried to readjust her bag. A strong hand landed on her shoulder as she struggled to pack her messages, she froze and turned slowly. It was an Outcaste patrol. Her hearing wasn't as good as it used to be, the noise, hustle and bustle of their power armour just was not registering any more. He didn't even acknowledge her, just pointed towards the door. He obviously had somewhere to be in a hurry. Probably just looking to finish his patrol.

The bag had no handles now and it was difficult for her to carry. She could feel it slip even though she tried to hold it in a bear-hug to her chest. Even in his last days Jack had been strong, he'd have carried it for her. She felt her bottom lip tremble as she thought about him, but she wouldn't allow herself to do that in front of the Outcastes. It wasn't the done thing.

She hobbled outside and moved back towards the road, keeping her back to the patrol. Her bag dropped again as her arms simply couldn't hold the weight of strapless container. As the Outcasts moved off she lowered herself carefully one knee at a time to gather her food again. Her eyes burned from the tears.

"Excuse me", said a young man who couldn't have been more than twenty years old, "would you like me to help you?"

Her bottom lip trembled once again, the random act of kindness had touched her. She wasn't expecting it.

"Well if it's no trouble to you. I don't live very far away, just two miles over that hill in fact."

The young man held out his hand to help her up, he introduced himself as Butch. Gathering her provisions for her the young man and the little old lady walked at her pace to her front gate, which she opened for the young man.

"Thank you so much", she said. "You are very kind and your manners are a credit to you."

"You're welcome", he said.

She opened the front door and asked him if he would be so kind as to leave the bag on the kitchen table. The young man duly obliged and bade the little old lady a good afternoon.

"Wait", she said, "I don't have much but let me give you something to repay your kindness."

"That's really not necessary", replied the young man. "I'm not doing good deeds for the reward. It's more of a karma thing, my friend told me he was sick of me being so neutral all the time."

"What a noble young man you are", she said, "but I insist".

She held out a cap in her trembling hands which shook so badly it fell on the ground.

"Oops", she said.

"I'll get it", said the young man bending down. Which is exactly when the little old lady took the ripper from inside her coat and brought it down with more strength than you might imagine on the back of the young man's head. She didn't hear him screaming as she hit him again and again and again. Soon the noise stopped.

It would take her longer to drag the body out to the shed without Jack but she was in no rush.

What else was there to do in Andale these days?


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note – I'm so sorry about this, I really am.

Chapter 4

_"So you know then I said to her sure who else would be knocking on me door at this time and I said it's probably me mother she's a great lady you know at 67 years of age she lives out in a small bus just behind Moriarty's and funnily enough the other night I got a job offer from a bunch of traders and I had to pick up a load of jet off Andy Stahl and bring them out there to the front gates and deliver them and all but tell you what though he's an awful bastard that fella I'm not really sure why I just can't stand him and we're always in and out of his place but anyway what was I saying Oh yeah I was out by the entrance to Megaton which was handy coz I can call in and see my Ma and get a cup of radiated hot water and some crispy squirrel bits and it's good for her you know because she's on her own even though she's a great woman for 67 and you wouldn't think she was that age to look at her the mischief she makes and all of them in the area know her well because she has one of those three-wheeled shopping trollies with a squeaky wheel and she keeps all the scrap metal she can get her hands on in it you know so she can trade them for bottles of whiskey and sure I remember going to the Super Duper mart 10 years ago to get it for her I brought me fella at the time although he ran back to his wife cause she had a baby by him and they were trying to get into some vault or something but not until he'd given me an engagement ring which was actually just a pair of sun-glasses not that I was bothered because I had a lucky escape there and met another man and he was from the south somewhere and we almost got married but he had to go off and light the good tights or something like that and he was a great man altogether fathering seven kids 'n all and bringing them to Little Lamplight but why aren't those kids outside playing kick the landmine or hide and go get the heat seeker missile like we used to when we were kids and I bet today's kids wouldn't know how to climb a tree not that there are any but if they were like us when we were little they would be like monkeys and like us they would be clambering up Megaton's walls and falling off them and poor Lucas Simms ended up with three broken legs after falling off his house yeah three broken legs he landed on his front and broke his penis too haha and in those days when they set a broken leg you were lucky if you didn't end up looking like a polio victim afterwards and-"_

_"Just there is fine for me, Nova"._

_"But you hired me for the whole night!"_

_"I think I'll just go to sleep"._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

It is the future. It is a dark, bleak time after a great war which has left humanity on the brink of existence. A few stalwarts struggle to right what went wrong but the forces of evil mostly prevail. They are pervasive, easy to follow, they give people the illusion of what they want, they tell them they can achieve their goals without struggle and because of this the light of goodness that exists in man is almost extinguished.

In Moriarty's Tavern last night Charon sat at one of the tables furiously scribbling on a piece of paper, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth such were his levels of concentration.

With Jericho out looking for Butch the tavern was quieter than usual so curiosity got the better of me. I went over and sat down with him. 

"What are you doing, Charon?" 

"Writing." 

"I can see that. Writing what?" 

"A letter." 

"To who?" 

"Elder Lyons."

"Why?" 

"Faulty power-armour." 

"What do you mean faulty power-armour? Can't you just take it back to the Citadel and change it for a new suit rather than go all the way to the big boss?"

"Can't." 

"Why not?" 

"Because this power-armour isn't faulty in the sense that the fusion reactor over-heats, or the hydraulics leek or any of the other countless things that could go wrong with it." 

"I see. Well, what exactly is faulty about it?" 

He leaned in towards me, looked around and lowered his voice. 

"It gives me an itchy ass." 

"What?" 

"Seriously, 101. I bought this suit the last time we were at the Citadel and the first day I wore it I was ever so taken with the comfort and support it offered. I thought I had found a second skin that I could wear for the rest of my life." 

"It doesn't sound faulty to me."

"Do you remember when we went hunting for loot down by the Jury Street Metro Station?"

"Vaguely."

"And we ran in to that Super Mutant Behemoth!"

"Oh now I remember, how could I forget?"

"Yeah, Jericho hit me right in the face with the MIRV Fat Man. I know he said to watch out and not stand in front of him but who knew you needed 8 mini-nukes just to make contact."

"With the Behemoth?"

"No, with my face. Oh God, the blood. It was everywhere."

"It sure was."

"You, Jericho and Butch were so good to me that day."

"It was nothing Charon, honest."

"The way you dragged me out from under it's carcass, left me unconscious in that sewerage drain pipe and then came back for me a few days later … I … I still get emotional."

"A good memory indeed."

"I remember Jericho giving me the MIRV, just to say, you know, you're one of us now."

"Yeah, eh, is this going somewhere?"

"Well, ever since I was hit by those nukes I've had the itching problem."

"You're going to have to finish the letter later, Charon."

"Its time?"

"Its time."

"We're finally reclaiming project purity."

"Keep that under your hat though, Charon."

"I will 101. Except I don't have a hat."

"If I give you a hat will you keep that under it?" 

"I certainly will." 

"Next time we meet someone with a hat I'll hit them with a bat and you take their caps and then I'll give you the hat."  
"You're as generous as a town crier, 101. Erm … can I buy 8 mini-nukes off you for the MIRV? ." 

"To you Charon, that'll be 800,000 caps."

A desperate alliance now gathers at the entrance to The Citadel, striving not to overthrow the pernicious Enclave but to remind those that they control that there is a better way. The right way. Many hear but few listen.

President Eden knows that he has nearly completed his task, that in a short time the cabal which troubles him so much will have to give up. His Vault-101 sub-routine has calculated through it's spy-bots that the human male phenomenon was growing even more arrogant and mocking. Previously happy to let him have the vial, now looking to destroy him. Such was the human male's hubris, he was preparing to counter-attack with the Lyon's Pride in support. The sub-routine never calculating for one second it could lose.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

In the annals of history many will claim to of been there that day. Many will claim to of fought the good fight. Many numbers will be talked about, a dozen of the Lyon's Pride, a thousand of the Enclave's shock troops. All I know is who I was with. And how many of us were left at the end.

If the Enclave won the resistance would have to disband, our battle lines were pushed back to the very doors of the Citadel itself. After that, the Enclave would have no barriers to the rest of the Wasteland. Should the Brotherhood win the dark forces of the Enclave would have to cease their malign influence.

We all knew what we had to do. It was all or nothing. It was do or die. It was no retreat, no surrender.

"No sign of Jericho or Butch?"

"No."

"It's up to us then."

"Yes, it is."

"I wonder. Will I dream?"

We tilt our heads towards the crane. We despair. Liberty Prime dangles lifeless above us, the powerless husk reflects the Scribes failure. We've lost our advantage before battle has even commenced. Charon looks to me and he can see my disappointment. There is no going back, we attack now no matter the cost. We've lost too much already, fallen back too many times. I'm hastily revising a new battle plan with Sarah. I see panic in her veteran eyes. She points in alarm. I turn. I see my companion fly. He is a magnificent sight.

Charon charges in. Zigging and zagging to avoid enemy fire. He zips down the left flank giving the Enclave troops on the right nothing to shoot at. An early move by him leaves the bulk of their forces confused. A ghoul in power-armour is charging the enemy on his own. He is charging unsupported. Glorious.

Charon launches himself on top of the first reinforced bunker, three Enclave troops and an officer are dazed by the bravado. He swings his shotgun down and around. Three shells at close range, pumped one after the other decimate the Enclave troops. The last one screams for reinforcements just as his helmet explodes. The officer runs across the bridge towards the opposite defensive position. Desperate for help he stumbles and scrambles on all fours seeking shelter. Charon follows the officer, grabs him around the neck in an effective choke hold, uses him as a shield. Charon lobs a plasma grenade just as the officer dies from incoming friendly fire. The grenade detonates, Enclave flesh and armour turn to liquid.

The Enclave is stunned. The Brotherhood is stunned. I'm stunned. We react quicker. We have to support Charon. We charge in his wake.

Enclave troops behind the encampments are left without cover, the first straggler takes the butt of Charon's shotgun to his neck. He falls to a downward sweep of Charon's combat knife as it slices open the lightly protected carotid artery.

He zips down the right flank towards the bulk of the Enclave troops. Activating a stealth boy he leaves the Enclave chasing shadows. An early sniping move sees Charon take down another officer. The troops are leaderless, panicking they respond with blind-fire, the early morning is filled with vivid streams of red and green. They remain tight though, a defensive semi-circular posture, each man covers the trooper to his left and right.

A bottle cap mine lands behind them. It beeps once then explodes in a blinding light of destruction. Fragmented pieces of jagged metal tear through their armour, some go down silent, most are left screaming in agony. The surviving Enclave troops remain clutching severed limbs and ruptured arteries.

Charon moves on, he's still ahead of us. The Enclave is badly shaken but we are on the back foot now. We try to reach Charon, desperately trying to support our lone attacker. It has cost us though. The Enclave artillery is deadly and accurate, two Paladins go down to explosions. A sniper picks of a third. We're suffering in the rear.

Charon takes the fight to them. He assaults the remaining positions, two encampments at the end of the bridge. He uses a modified rocket-launcher firing missile after missile into the last two fortified bunkers. He screams with blood-lust as the weapon runs out of ammunition, reloads his shotgun and charges again. The remaining Enclave troops are badly mauled but this time they're prepared. Energy weapons are aimed against my companion, his shotgun is destroyed and he is bloodied. A combination of luck and valiant charging brings him to the summit of the third enclave bunker. He jumps, two footed into the middle of the Enclave platoon. He desperately slices with his combat knife while viciously ripping with his ripper. Bloodlust takes him. He becomes feral. More animal than man now he ignores reason and follows instinct only. Lashing wildly, without discipline, sheer strength forces the Enclave back.

The Enclave try to fall back. They try to regroup. They utterly fail.

Charon charges on. He switches back to his sniper rifle. The road leading to the Jefferson Memorial is lightly defended. One Enclave trooper goes down to sniping, a second to a perfect three round burst from his Chinese assault rifle. A third is taken out at 60 yards. The weapon jams. He discards it.

Charon has cleared a path to Project Purity single-handed, we try to keep up with his ferocious pace but he has left us behind. Most of the Lyons Pride are dead now, the Enclave are reinforcing positions we've taken. A crossfire behind is costing us Paladin's at an alarming rate. I have to get to Charon. There are just two more miles to Project Purity.

I see him up ahead. He's coming to the last corner of street fighting. He has thrown his combat knife at an Enclave officer, hitting him squarely between the eyes. He claws and bites and shreds an Enclave trooper in Telsa armour with his ripper, hands and teeth. Another trooper is firing a plasma rifle at him. Charon gets hit once and his armour takes the brunt, he dodges the next shot but the third burns a whole clean through him. He charges at his attacker, refusing to die, he thrusts a frag grenade into the neck joint of his last attacker's armour. The trooper explodes in a brilliant display of crimson. There are no more stragglers impeding our destination.

I'm so close to him I can see the fire burning in his eyes. I'm so close I can see he's loosing too much blood. I scream at him to wait for reinforcements to wait for a stim pack but he has already turned the corner. We're close to the end. God we're so close.

The remaining Lyon's pride catches up to me. We follow Charon around the corner to their final defence. The Lincoln Memorial is awash with our enemy. Their lines seem to stretch on forever. Bunkers and barbed wire have been erected. Their fortifications seem inpenetrable. The Enclave is rattled but we can sense something special might happen.

Charon works down the right hand side now keeping close to the river. He has lost most of his weapons. His armour is failing. His feral ferocity is almost empty. Having charged up ahead has left his body spent and without adrenaline. His high-pitched screaming is distracting the Enclave from firing on the main group of the Lyon's Pride. A deathclaw is let loose, Charon charges it and gives it a flying head-butt. Charon continues to claw and bite. He reaches for anything he can use as a weapon and pulls out his shovel. Using it as a club he continues to smash the make-shift weapon into the Deathclaw's control antenna. The deathclaw struggles to its feet. No longer receiving commands from The Enclave its stunned and discombobulated state leaves it in search of easier prey. It turns and charges back into The Enclave battle lines.

We go wild. It's on. It's really on. The Enclave fight back, pressing for a win they target Charon and the deathclaw. The last of his power armour fails. The intricate energy streams fired at him leave him dying. He has nothing left to give. A moment of sound reason lifts the battle haze from his eyes. He pulls out his last weapon. He scratches his ass. He charges one last time.

I see my companion's final charge. I wave my arms theatrically and berate the Brotherhood for their sluggish support. My companion is dying and I can't reach him.

Charon thinks quick and darts forward. The Enclave notice and react. What seems like a hundred laser and plasma rifles rain down fire upon him, their vicious tirade leave him bloodied and burnt. He drops 30 yards from the Enclave battle lines and bursts into flames. He drops but not before he squeezes the hair line trigger on the MIRV fatman. Every single member of the Enclave stop firing. Eight mini-nukes are heading towards their battle-lines. We are all deathly silent. Time slows down as gravity brings the staggered trajectory of the min-nukes down. The last Enclave officer in charge looks on with schizophrenic protestant panic.

My companion becomes a destroyer of worlds.

Eight small suns light up the new day.


	7. Chapter 7

We were four. Charon, Jericho, Butch and I. Companions since I left the vault. Friends since we were baptised by gun fire.

Every year Jericho and I celebrate the two that passed. We remember them and think about how they were taken from us.

Butch wasn't filthy and smelly like Charon and Charon wasn't a cretin like Butch. They weren't unstoppable like Jericho. They weren't a misanthropic heartthrob like me. They were average. They weren't too tall, they weren't too small. Neither too fat nor too thin.

They weren't great at any one thing but pretty good at everything without ever excelling. They covered me while we explored and looted, made wasteland weapons, got in a fight with the odd bar-fly. Smoked a bit, drank a fair bit, and dabbled with jet from time to time.

Everything about them was average. And that's what was great about them. You knew what you were getting with Charon and Butch. You would never have best night in Moriarty's with them but it wouldn't be the worst. They would get their rounds in, tell a funny story every once and a while and never forget my birthday.

Losing them was hard. It's hard to lose a friend, especially someone your own age. It's hard to lose a friend, it can be catastrophic to lose two. Sometimes you look in the mirror, see how the Wasteland has aged you, the premature grey hairs, the wrinkles, hard living and hard drinking leaves you with a body carved out of wood. I can't help but think of how Charon and Butch would look today. All I can see is their faces. I think sometimes I can remember their voices. I would know them in an instance if I heard them but I can't hear them in my head anymore.

You just never know the direction life will take you in and yesterday, as every year, was the time we remind ourselves of that. Jericho and I stood shoulder to shoulder outside the Lincoln Memorial, gazing down at the two graves of our friends. The weather almost illustrative of their lives. The sun shone above while the wind blew sea-drops in from the Atlantic. Butch was sunshine, Charon was wind. And here we were, all those years later. The pain of what happened to them still raw. I felt Jericho's hand on my shoulder as I stared at the names on the tombstones, the numbers barely making sense. For most of us this would be all the world would remember of us. Strangers that passed by in the future would think 'Oh, there's so and so, he lived from this date to that date'. And that was our legacy. A thousand months, if we were lucky.

I looked across at Jericho, normally so vacant but today there was emotion. Cognisance. Jericho can keep himself in check better than anyone I know but I could see the extra glint in his eye, that extra moisture that had nothing to do with the wind or the sun.

I felt my jaws clench as I thought back to what happened after Charon's death. What happened with Colonel Autumn? How hard it had been. How incredibly hard. It was something the four of us would have always shared, no matter what. We had our differences, our fights, difficulties, but this was something that would have always bonded us in a way that most people, thankfully, would never experience. I had been searching for him for so long. Charon, Butch and Jericho have been with me every step of the way.

That night, when it happened, was etched permanently in my brain. When my time comes, when my life flashes before my eyes, that's going to be right there. His face. The trauma, how distraught I was. How, afterwards, there were tears, distressed outbursts for months, a desperate feeling of loss over my Father and, as always when someone close to you dies, the guilt.

"It's strange to think of the battle that was here so many years ago, pity I couldn't make it back in time."

"It still feels like yesterday to me."

"You never did tell me how you ended things with Autumn, Kid."

"No, I didn't."

"Any regrets?"

"I made my decision. I can live with it."


	8. Chapter 9

Many people think that the Wasteland has only four caravan traders but there's actually five.

Thievin' Tim came into Moriarty's last night. He's the thievingist fucker I ever met in my life. I once saw him steal someone's sense of youthful optimism, and there aren't too many who can do that.

Some years back I worked as his bodyguard after he'd had a bad accident and spilled a load of hot plasma on his face by having his face held in the hot plasma because of some money he owed to Moriarty. I used to offer him protection until I learnt my own lesson about his thieving ways. Its easy to forget, as a gainfully self-employed gadabout, what a vast range of people you meet.

Last night Jericho had to go away and see his eight year old son up north in The Pitt. There was some kind of issue, he'd been hanging around the wrong kind of people and a .38 pistol had been found on him. Jericho had to go up and sort it out. 'No son of mine is going to be messing around with guns...well, not while there are perfectly good plasma rifles available'.

Thievin' Tim came up to the bar.

"Hows it going 101?"

"Fine Thievin' Tim, how are you?"

"Ah sure, you know. Ignorance is bliss and all that."

"Get your hands where I can see them, you filthy fucker."

"Hahaha, fool me once, eh 101?"

"Just get away from me. You could will the wallet out of a trader's back pocket."

"Is Moriarty around?"

"He's around."

"Ah good, it was booze I wanted to talk to him about."

So we shot the breeze for a while. I kept all valuables as close to me as possible. I even made sure I didn't think about anything bad because that fucker could steal your thoughts. Moriarty came back then.

"Moriarty", said Thievin' Tim, "I may have just what you're looking for."

"Three-Dog's heart on a stick?"

"No. Booze. A few bottles came my way recently and I thought you might be interested."

"I may well be. I'll take the whiskey."

"Sorry Moriarty, I sold the whiskey to Joe Porter in Canterbury Commons."

"Fuck ya. Give me the vodka then. It's a bit fruity but I can usually fool my customers into drinking it at some stage."

"No can do. The vodka went to Belle Bonny in Rivet City."

"Then what the fuck have you got?", asked Moriarty.

"Banana liquor. All yours. Great price too."

"Banana liquor", said Moriarty.

"Yeah", said Thievin' Tim.

"Why would come in here and sell me banana liquor? Do you think I serve the residents of Tenpenny Tower?"

"No Moriarty. I just thought-"

"Do you think I'm a resident of Tenpenny Tower?"

"No, honestly. It was just that-"

"Because who drinks banana liquor, Tim?"

"I – er – uhm..."

"Who drinks banana liquor?"

"Tenpenny residents, Moriarty. Tenpenny residents drink banana liquor."

"And you think I would let banana liquor drinkers in my bar, because there's no other reason you would try and sell me banana liquor. You must think I've got a market for it and if I let banana liquor drinkers in here than that makes me a banana liquor drinker. That's why I'm asking why would you come in here and try and sell me banana liquor."

"I...I'm sorry Moriarty."

"Hold him there, 101."

"Now wait, 101. Let go. Come on, please. Let go. Please let me go. Let me go, let me go."

"Good man, 101."

"Not the cellar, Moriarty. God. Jesus. Not the cellar."

So Moriarty took Thievin Tim down to the cellar and nobody has ever seen him since. And that's the tale of the fifth Wasteland caravan trader.


	9. Chapter 9a

Chapter 9 (The real chapter 9. Not like that fake chapter 9 on the previous page. Thanks for pointing that out Dailey Vengeance).

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think giving you information on him is one of the worst fucking ideas anyone has ever had", said Jericho.

"We're just interested in him", replied the reporter. "The Wasteland Echo's first publication should be on the hero who led the final push against the Enclave."

"Kid. People who ask me too many questions about 101, especially when I'm drunk and especially in this bar usually end up in Moriarty's basement."

"I don't have a choice. I went over to him because I saw him sitting on his own. How was I supposed to know not to approach him?"

"Usually its okay but today is different."

"The Lone Wanderer..."

"101".

"Eh, 101 has been the greatest influence on the Wasteland since. Well, since ever."

"Don't call him 'The Lone Wanderer', Kid. Ever. Bad things happen to people when they call him that."

"Why? Its his name isn't..."

"Because that's what Three-Dog calls him and considering how often I've seen him smashing a rock against his Pip-boy when the radio is on its probably best to leave that alone."

"I see. Can't I just go over and talk to him? Please? He's right there in the little corner room."

"No but let me tell you a little about 101. Hopefully he wont try to insert my assault rifle in me again so we're going to have to speak in a hushed voice. You know the price?"

"Oh. A pint of whiskey please, Bar-Keep."

Jericho took a swig.

"101 lives four doors up the road from me in Megaton. He's been there since he was eighteen and I would never claim to be the grumpiest prick in the neighbourhood once he's around. He has legendary status for decimating the Enclave, invading the Pitt, saving the Wasteland and berating anyone that might try to waste his time."

"I see."

"He hates Three-Dog with a passion. A travelling merchant once tried to sell him a Three-Dog selected songs vid. He made that merchant feel small and pathetic by pointing out that if he ever wanted to listen to Three Dog's selected songs, as a fully functional human being he is quite capable of flicking a switch on his Pip-Boy and listening to them. If he wanted to get them in person he would travel to Three-Dog and just punch them out of him."

"Oh."

"He reduced a poor Brotherhood of Steel Knight to a gibbering wreck when he was canvassing him for approval on a battle plan he had for re-invading the Pitt. He lambasted him for not doing a proper reconnaissance, failing to know the correct number of raiders in the city, not understanding the level of technology they had, who was leading them and where their supply lines were. He tore him a part for so long that by the time it was all over the poor Knight went straight to the nearest bar. Unfortunately for him it happened to be Moriarty's tavern and we ended up getting him drunk and then melting his power armour down for a new hat rack."

"Em..."

"Anyway, 101 has an old dog called Dogmeat. Its part mongrel, part...mongrel, so its a pure bred mongrel. He and 101go everywhere together. Exploring. Scavenging. Combat. Even Moriarty lets Dogmeat sit under 101's feet at this bar. He usually sits where you're sitting."

"Okay. So, should I move..."

"Tonight though he's come in on his own. Now you would notice 101 without Dogmeat like you would notice a ghoul with a wig. So something is up and unless you want your personal effects melted down to an ash tray you had better leave. No more questions."

The reporter left. Jericho finished his pint and walked over.

"Hey Kid. Everything all right?"

"Not exactly, Jericho."

"The dog?"

"Yeah."

"What happened?"

"Not sure. He was a bit shivery last night so I put his bed beside the stove. Figured I'd bring him to Doc Church if he wasn't better this morning."

He took a drink and continued talking. His hands were shaking visibly.

"So, I got up this morning and he normally waddles over, the fat lump, to say good morning. He didn't do that this morning. I looked at him in his bed and he looked up at me and then he closed his eyes. Gone."

"Ah damn-it Kid. I'm sorry to hear that, 101."

"I'm telling you he waited all night just to say goodbye, Jericho. Had that dog for seventeen years. He was my best friend."

"Do you need a hand with anything?"

"No, all done. Thanks. I sat with him for an hour and I cried. I don't mind telling you I cried."

"No harm in that, 101. Will you have another pint?"

"I will."

So Jericho sat and drank with 101 and he cried a little bit more over his dog.


	10. Chapter 10

"101", said Jericho supping a pint of Bloody Mary (made with real blood) in Moriarty's last night. "I've been having a series of weird dreams and I was hoping you could use your wisdom and knowledge to analyse them for me".

"I can certainly try", I said.

"Right, well the first one is I'm fighting in the Wasteland, right? But every time I go to shoot my assault rifle only a tiny little spurt of white goo comes out of the barrel. Not the long, strong, familiar crack of hot lead that should shoot forth".

"I see".

"Then there's another when I'm at home in my kitchen and I'm very hungry so I look around for a snack. I decide not to eat any tinned cans, nor any animal meet but instead I choose a banana. I pick up the banana to peel it but it goes all floppy and limp in my hand and I throw it away in disgust".

"Go on …"

"In the next dream I'm trying to get the top of a building via a ladder. There's a huge VR capsule at the summit and lots of other people successfully make it and climb in but each time I try I just can't get up. More and more people reach the top and jump for joy but whatever I do I just can't get there."

"Hmmm, interesting".

"And the final dream sees me in a clinic of some kind for treatment for an unspecified condition. I know this treatment is unsuccessful because Nova is leaping about the place laughing at me and behind her is one of those old warning signs that say's 'do not enter'. I stand there confused, distraught and slumped. I can't stand up fully no matter how hard I try. My whole body is limp".

"Jericho", I said, "even the most amateur of dream analysts would be able to tell you what's going on here".

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. The symbolism is far from subtle, there are hints in every single dream as to what's bothering you, and it's clearly a problem you're having in real life that is troubling you and manifesting itself in your dreams".

"It is?"

"It is", I laughed angrily.

"So what is it?"

"You're a fucking shit-box ".


	11. Chapter 11

"Did I ever tell you about the time I met Three-Dog?", I asked Jericho in Moriarty's the other night.

"No, you never did, 101."

"That's because it's a shit story."

"Er, right…"

"What about the time I intercepted a set of instructions from the leadership of the Talon mercenaries which led me to find a drugs cache which I sold to Andy Stahl and spent 4 months in Point Lookout drinking rum cocktails and betting on cock fights?"

"No, you haven't told me that one."

"Bah, it's boring. Have I ever mentioned the time when, after a long session, myself and Butch ended up in Pittsburgh having befriended one of the founders of the rebel groups and spent 6 weeks fighting against the right wing evil dictatorship and eventually overthrew their regime? There was hand to hand combat, we witnessed horrific acts of violence, saw more blood than Nova has seen cock and once the fighting was over had a 5 week party during which a thousand molerats were slaughtered as sacrifice in the most hilarious way you can possibly imagine."

"Ooooh, tell me more."

"Nah, it's rather dull. Tell me this, have I ever related to you the tale of Mothership Zeta, not long after my act of sabotage on fat-arsed Sarah Lyons ensured the project purity reactor was shut down by me and no other I was approached by a scientist who begged me to a lead a mission into deep space as a newly discovered alien race was coming towards earth with the intention of making humans into slaves and food for their pets? Being the fearless leader I am I led this mission in a top secret craft which can travel through time, which is why nobody noticed I was missing, and we intercepted the alien fleet. I boarded their spaceship without even an oxygen mask and punched every single alien in the face until they died and that wasn't easy as they didn't have faces, thanks for that VATS. On the way back to earth we got caught in a space storm and were catapulted down a wormhole to the dawn of time where I saw the creation of the universe itself and how it came into being. It allowed me to understand completely the reason for our existence and meaning of all life as we know it. With little fuel left I used the gravitational pull of the newly formed planets to steer the ship back into the wormhole and back to the earth. The scientist people tried to wipe my memory with a brick but the radiation and space rays that had passed through my body made me immune to their nefarious technology and I can remember with perfect clarity everything about that adventure."

"I'm sure I'd remember you telling me that. It sounds great. Let me get a pint in and you can tell me the rest."

"Hmmm, it's rather a vapid narrative now that I come to think about it."

"Fucking hell!"

"What about the time I went to Moria's Hardware shop and she gave me back the change of twenty caps even though I only gave her ten?"

"Nope."

"Right, well it was a Saturday morning, as I recall, and I needed a new lock for the front door …."


	12. Chapter 12

She lay shivering on the bed, the ugly grey light of morning cutting through the condensation on the windows and spotlighting the smoke that blanketed the room.

She had no idea how long she'd been staring at the ceiling. When she thought about it she realised she had no idea how long she'd been awake. The previous night had passed in a blur. One moment there were people there, the next she was alone and cold on the bed. There was no duvet, just a thin, stained sheet.

She remembered being fucked, didn't know by who or if she'd enjoyed it. She assumed it was all right like all the other times. Maybe she'd just stared at the ceiling then too.

She sat up, reached out and lit a cigarette. The first drag was like swallowing fire and it sent her into spasms of coughing. When the coughing had stopped she smoked more, the filter clutched between gnarled fingers, deep black filth under the fingernails which were thick and yellowed.

She looked around the room. The heart shaped bed, the overflowing ashtray, the carpet which was more dirt than fabric leading into the kitchenette which was home to dirty plates and pots, ancient tinned cans and empty boxes of cram. Against this backdrop the tinfoil trays of rock-hard rice and greasy pages from centuries old burned books were more decoration than litter.

It was a long way from the good times. She coughed again, almost swallowing the greeny-black lump of phlegm which shot into her mouth like a bullet. She gagged a bit, spat it on the floor, smoked again. Her tongue rubbed her teeth. How long had it been since she brushed them? Not days, into weeks now. This wasn't how it used to be.

She remembered being stronger, the excitement, the glitz and glamour of power armour. Plasma rifles, shotguns, 9mm handguns, radio stations that drove 101 insane, magazines he found for her. He always made her look good. Her hair, her make-up, her clothes, he always found her something to make her happy. The buzz and excitement meant working 18 hours a day with constant travel was never a problem. There were people to watch her back and when she was tired there was always somebody with something to provide a little extra energy. 101 didn't judge. Psycho was rampant in the wasteland.

Scavenging, bodyguard detail, mercenary contracts and so many would-be-friends. Would-be-enemies didn't last long against 101 and company. The Talon mercenaries could testify to that. Or rather, they would, if they were still alive.

Who knew you could meet so many great people so quickly? It was no fifteen minutes with him. It was supposed to be long-term. Friends were forever, not hangers-on who cut themselves loose at the first hint of trouble.

She looked at the veins on her legs, the scabs on the inside her arms, the tremor in her hands which was getting worse every time she remembered to take note of it. Her feet were filthy, the crusted sludge between her toes pained what was left of what used to be her. She finished the cigarette, dropped it into the can of beer and sat with her head in her hands, drifting in the haze of her muddled thoughts. It was only when she took another drink of the warm, flat beer that she remembered what she'd done with the smoke.

She began to cry. No sound, just tears cleaning a path down the grime that covered her face. She lay back on the bed and folded into her sorrow. As she shivered her way into sleep Clover wished there was a message she could take heart from but her time had gone and passed. She had left him for Eulogy. Just another mistake she had made.

She wanted it all back. She wanted him back.


	13. Chapter 13

Sitting minding my own business in Moriarty's last night … well, not so much minding my own business as poking my nose into everyone else's business when Jericho came up to me.

"Would it be worth it, 101?", asked Jericho.

"Oh fuck yes".

"You sure?"

"No question about it. You'd be a hero. A legend of all time".

"You think?"

"Think? I know. You'd go down in history. Legend of the Wasteland".

"She's some good company to be keeping".

"You know it".

"There's gonna be some shit though".

"Definitely".

"I might get a bit bashed up. Moriarty won't be happy".

"It's one of the perils of making oneself the prime subject in a tale that will be told for years and years. It will become like the liberation of the Pitt, the battle for Project Purity, the destruction of President Eden. Fathers will tell sons who will tell their sons and it will surely be one of the greatest anecdotes of all time".

"I might need your help afterwards, what with all the fallout and what have you. You'll be there for me?"

"Ordinarily I would say yes but actually mean no and leave you stew and suffer the consequences on your own. But this time I truly mean yes. It's beyond reward what you are going to do. I shall proudly stand shoulder to shoulder with you. I will tell the world 'This is my friend. Look at what he has done. We … we love him!"

"Really?"

"I promise you".

"Yeah, but you promised me you'd be there for me when I punched Lucas Simms in the face for a bet and when I turned around you, Butch and Charon had gone although I could hear you laughing as he and Deputy Weld beat me up".

"This is different. You have my word".

"Honestly?"

"Yes. Cross my heart", I said crossing my heart.

"Ok then".

"You're gonna do it?"

"Yeah", he said with fervent vigour. He left Moriaty's with one singular purpose in mind.

"Where's he off to then?", asked Moriarty.

"To ask Nova to marry him." I replied.

"You know I was just up at the Lincoln Memorial and I could swear I heard your old man turning in his grave, 101."

"Probably just your imagination, Moriarty".


	14. Chapter 14

So we're sitting around in Moriarty's drinking, as my regular pip-boy updates will testify to, I am a man of moderation and abstinence. We we're just shooting the breeze and having a bit of the old banter with Mr. Burke, who had just come back from compassionately assassinating some bloke out in the Wasteland.

Then Jericho came in and he was more interested in being moody about his lack of direction in life. As a boon to him I set him up with the GOAT (Generalised Occupational Aptitude Test). He chewed on his pencil and drummed his fingers on the counter and after an hour had only completed three answers.

The night before Jericho came to me looking for advice. Normally I would listen intently to what he says and then provide him with the kind of advice that would provide us with comedy moments for years to come. However, this time I felt I should do the right thing and help him out. In fairness there's only so many times you can have a man arrested/hospitalised/traumatised/circumcised.

He looked frustrated and his frustration turned to even more frustration when Ladleface walked through the door. Ladleface is one of Jericho's arch-enemies and is called Ladleface because his face looks like you're looking at his reflection in the back of a ladle. By a strange coincidence his brother is known as 'Forky' but that's because one night Jericho stabbed him in the top of the head with a fork and he was so drunk he didn't notice. He went around most of the night with the fork sticking out of the top of his head. Eventually somebody removed it but not until the name had stuck.

"Hello lads", he said, "long time no see."

We muttered our hellos while Jericho muttered things like "Fuck off you shit-box. Long time without seeing you is fun time. I hate you."

"What are you doing there, Jericho?", he asked.

"G.O.A.T.", said Jericho.

"Ahh, that's a good reason to come join you. A pint of vodka mixed with rum please Moriarty."

Moriarty gave him a pint of whiskey.

"Race ya", said Ladleface, who has always been very competitive, "and you've even had a head-start!"

Ten minutes later Ladleface is holding aloft his GOAT, the exam entirely finished, waving it around in the air like he just don't care.

"Finished! How're you doing, Jericho?", he asked before grabbing Jericho's paper in which he had filled in one more giving him a grand total of four.

"Ye big fool!", he said. "Only four? You're thicker than two short planks."

"Fuck off, Ladleface, you strange-headed prick", said Jericho, who doesn't like to beaten.

"Hahahaha", scoffed Ladleface.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever, but you can't do this", said Jericho picking up his pint glass. He took a big glug of whiskey, half-swallowed it and then held his nose. At first he looked like he was suffering from constipation, his face all scrunched up, but all of a sudden a jet of booze flew out of the corner of his eye and hit Ladleface right in the nose.

"Fucking hell", I said. "When did you learn how to do that?"

"I was just bored at home one day and practised for a couple of hours. I think my brain sucks it into my tear ducts or something. I can shoot it about 10 feet if I really try."

"Nice one", said Billy Creel.

Meanwhile Ladleface was unhappy, his thunder having been well and truly stolen. "I can too do that", he said, picking up his own pint glass and doing exactly what Jericho did. But no alcohol ejaculated from the corner of his eyes. He held his nose, he scrunched his whole face, he scrunched with all his might but nothing happened. Again and again he tried but it was no use.

Exhausted he stopped and knew he was beaten. He turned around to concede and when he did Jericho let out a shriek.

"Arrrrggh!"

And it was the weirdest thing. Ladleface's left eye was completely red, the whole thing. Then, as we were looking at him, his right eye started to go red, like somebody was filling it up with blood right in front of us.

"What's wrong?", he asked, panicked at the looks in our eyes.

"Oh my", said Mr. Burke.

Ladleface turned to Jericho who gasped then said "Hahaha, your eyes have burst", which was probably the last thing the poor bastard heard before he slumped to the floor.

I gave him a few kicks but he didn't move.

"Looks like he's dead", I said.

"Fuck's sake", said Moriarty, "not another one. Right, bring him down to the basement."

"Actually I think I can see him breathing", said Jericho.

"I said bring him down to the basement".

And we did. It's amazing how often you can convince people that the sweet, sickly smell is coming from the radioactive water under the atom bomb. Jericho continued his GOAT and by the time I was leaving three hours later he'd filled in another three answers.


	15. Chapter 15

So an Enclave spy-bot visited Moriarty's Tavern last night. I thought they had all been destroyed when President Eden went off-line but this one was self-sufficient.

At some point he broke away from the main Enclave party and ended up in Moriaty's. He hovered over a stool at the bar beside me and the other lads. The familiar rasping voice came back to me in no time.

"_You there, tavern owner. A pint of Whiskey and none of your lip",_ it said to Moriarty.

"_My God, it's a shame the famine doesn't kill more of you disgusting Wastelanders"_, it said looking at Jericho._ "I thought only mole-rats wallowed in their own filth."_

It turned it's attention to Gob. _"What a ghastly little man you are. You're like Colonel Auburn with the plague."_

Jericho was sat open mouthed.

"_Close your face you ugly little man. You Wastelanders are stupid enough already without making faces to look like total degenerates."_

Moriarty gave him his pint.

"_One of the natives will pay for it, I'm sure_", it said.

"_You there"_, it said to me. _"I realise it's probably a good year's wages for you, you whiskered terrorist – although that Project Purity attack will always give me a pain in the arse. Bloody do-gooder that you are. Kudos for that one – pay the bloody man for my drink. Barter if you have to. I'm sure you've got a spare brahmin or something, you wretched indigent."_

"_Barman, give me some kind of snack. I couldn't eat the gruel they gave me at the Enclave Headquarters. Typical Wasteland fare, they said. Brahmin swill, I say. 'Tinned food'? You'd think you ninnies would have learned by now to move away from 400 year old tinned food as your staple diet."_

"_You two, fight!",_ he ordered Gob and Jericho._ "Come on! Drunken Wasteland bastards. Fight. It's what you do, isn't it? Get drunk and fight like inebriated savages. The whole world knows it."_

What a marvellous little machine. I do hope it comes back in to Moriarty's for a pint today.


	16. Chapter 16

*Incoming Transmission – Location Unknown*

"GNR Brotherhood of Steel Forward Scout Base, Knight Paladin Slade speaking. What is your emergency?"

"Good evening. I would like you to put out a fire tomorrow evening, please."

"What?"

"I said I would like you to put out a fire tomorrow evening."

"Erm…that's not possible. This line is only for reporting emergencies happening at present, preferably super-mutant emergencies. Do you have an emergency right now?"

"Obviously I don't or I would have said I need you to put a fire out **now**. However, I am going to have an emergency tomorrow night and surely some advance warning would increase your response time."

"Sir, that is very considerate of you but unless you're Nostradamien there's no way you can know if there's going to be an emergency, specifically a fire, tomorrow night."

"Well, you're right in that I'm not 'Nostradamien'. I'd imagine it was the fact I'm not speaking in rhymed quatrains that gave it away. Nevertheless I can assure you there is going be an emergency, specifically a fire, tomorrow night."

"How do you know this?"

"Because I'm going to start it."

"You're going to start it?"

"Yes, I'm going to start it."

"I see. Do you mind me asking why?"

"Yes, I mind."

"Ok, so where are you going to start it?"

"I haven't quite decided yet. Probably around the groinal area although the face might be good."

"You're going to set a person on fire?"

"How perceptive of you."

"Sir, I must advise you that setting people on fire is something the Brotherhood of Steel will take quite seriously and as this call is being recorded and easy to trace I think you should reconsider your plan or you could face some very terminal consequences."

"What kind of a Wasteland are we living in where setting people on fire is a big problem? It's madness. I mean, if giant ants can set themselves on fire and burn down whatever they want why can't we set people on fire who thoroughly deserve it?"

"It's a good point but it does not change the fact that it causes irreparable harm to the individual. And if this person offends you so much why do you want the Brotherhood of Steel to arrive and probably save them."

"It would be much better if they lived and suffered hideous scarring rather than dying and not living for years with their affliction. We're talking about history's greatest monster here."

"You're going to set 3-Dog on fire?"

"I'm afraid he has left me with no choice. I heard today that he is in his studio making a new album. I can't let that happen, I won't let that happen and I can't let that happen."

"Sir?"

"Yes."

"Knock him unconscious, strip him and cover him in wonderglue before you set him alight. That shit will melt right into his skin."

"Cheers, much obliged. Anyway, how's 2100hrs for you?"

"Perfect."

"All right, see you then."

*End Transmission*

"All set Jericho. I'm just going out to get some napalm."


	17. Chapter 17

Jericho has gone vegetarian. He says he can no longer cope with the senseless slaughter of animals for our consumption. I say I can no longer cope with him being a complete and utter shit-box but he doesn't seem to be giving that up.

Anyway, he invited me, Gob and Moriarty over for dinner on Saturday night. Normally I can think of an excuse to get out of going to his house to eat but this time I was caught on the hop and ended up with no choice but to go. The upside was the only way to cope with going to his house is to get really, really drunk. It's not that his house is dirty. Despite his own questionable hygiene and personal odour, his house is well kept.

It's just a really depressing place. It looks like it hasn't been redecorated since Megaton's walls went up which is quite a coincidence because it hasn't actually been redecorated since Megaton's walls went up. Terrible wallpaper, curtains that look like the stage curtains at a village concert hall, threadbare patterned carpet in what was once brown and beige but now looks like the colour of old mud and the furniture would have some kitsch value if it wasn't falling apart.

Anyway, after spending some months in The Pitt a long time ago Jericho reckons he's the best cook in The Wasteland. It's quite patently not true. You can go to the worst store in The Wasteland and look into what passes for a kitchen and witness whatever sad wretch reheats the food in there and he/she/it is probably a better cook than Jericho but to be fair to him he can knock together a decent brahmin curry.

So it was no surprise when that's exactly what he served on Saturday.

"How are you liking the brahmin curry, lads?", he asked.

"Hitting the spot, Jericho", I said. "Hey Moriarty, pour me another pint of banana liquor. Cheers."

"Good, good. I'm glad you're enjoying the …_brahmin_…curry."

"Yeah, it's good", said Gob. "Give us one of those naan breads, 101."

"Splendid. Everyone is appreciating the taste of my …*cough*…**BRAHMIN**….*cough cough*…curry."

I put down my knife and fork.

"Something you need to tell us, Jericho?"

"Oh, no. What gave you that idea?"

"Jericho. Don't have me thrash you to within an inch of your life. What's going on?"

"Well…hehehe…you think you're eating brahmin but, in fact, it's not brahmin at all."

"Molerat?", asked Gob.

"No, Gob. Not molerat. It's no animal meat whatsoever. It is Quorn."

A deathly silence fell about the table.

"Quorn?", I said.

"Yes, Quorn", he replied.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Jericho! Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you know what that shit is made from?"

"I know that it's made from some kind of fungus and no innocent creature has to die to fill your belly."

"Firstly, you fucking prick, how dare you impose your values on me in your own home. Secondly, 'a kind of fungus' is what they want you to think, you dopey bastard. Look at the name. Quorn. Can't you see it? What is fed on corn? Chickens. And what part of a chicken begins with Qu? The quim, of course. Quorn is actually chicken minge and you sit there as smug as you like after feeding us, your friends, with the processed vulva, labia and clitorii of farmyard birds. Fucking hell."

"My God, I never knew. I'm sorry, 101, Moriarty, Gob…."

"There's no time for that. Lads, do what you have to do."

In unison the three of us put our fingers down our throats and sprayed vomit all over the table until there was no more puke to be puked.

"Oh, fucking hell", he said as he looked at his bile covered kitchen. "You could at least have gone out in the back garden".

"No we could not", I said. "Trying to make us eat Quorn and trying to pass it off as some kind of healthy alternative is just despicable. I've done some bad things in my time. Like that time I stole the collection money from that orphanage in Rivet City. Or the time I snuck into the Citadel and waited for Elder Lyons to fall asleep so I could leave his hand in a luke warm class of water. Or like that time I was face to face with the Overseer of vault 101 and he told me he was going to launch a terrorist offensive on the vault which would bring us to the point of human cleansing and I figured he was just another Johnny Big Bollocks giving it the big I am so I let him go without killing him. But I've never done anything like give somebody Quorn. NEVER."

Jericho just stood there looking down at his shoes.

"Yeah, fair enough. Sorry again lads."

"Now, do you want a hand cleaning up this vomit?"

"Yeah. That'd be great."

"It would be great but we're not gonna. We're off to Moriarty's to get some decent food. And whilst you're cleaning up you just have a very hard think about your culinary wishes for the future."

Quorn I tell you. Some people have a bloody nerve.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Jericho fell into a pond last week and having thrashed about manically, screaming blue bloody murder that he couldn't swim, it took Gob only a moment to offer him his teaching services. Given the nice weather we've had this week Jericho and Gob headed off to the coast for the weekend. The plan was to spend the weekend by the water so Jericho could learn how to stay afloat. They were supposed to come home tomorrow but they turned up in Moriarty's this evening.

"All right, lads? How was the weekend?", I asked.

"Er, great. Yeah. Just great", said Gob.

"I concur", said Jericho. "It was a very great weekend and nothing untoward happened at all."

"Right, you fuckers. What happened?"

"Nothing!", they both said at the same time. Obviously something had gone down. It was my mission to find out what it was. So I plied them with pints but they stayed firm. They had made some kind of pact and fair play to them they were sticking to it. It took a couple or four whiskeys before I found out what had happened.

Jericho is the weak one when smashed so Moriarty and Mr. Burke kept Gob occupied while I worked on Jericho.

"Tell me", I said.

"I can't", he'd say.

"Come on, Jericho. I won't tell anyone else. Just tell me. We've been through a lot together man. You can trust me."

Eventually he gave in. So some time that morning they decided to go for a swim in the Atlantic. You've got to admire their ability to ignore freezing cold radiated water but they were happy splashing around off the Capitol's coast. Gob got out and was flinging stones from the beach at mirelurks whilst shouting instructions at Jericho.

"Look at me, Gob! I'm doing the front crawl! Now I'm doing the backstroke!"

He did the breast stroke with great success and then came the butterfly. He was doing that most ridiculous looking of swimming strokes and telling Gob all about it.

"I'm butterflying, Gob! I'm the greatest butterflier of all time. In history there's never been anyone like me. The power, the precision, the ... OH JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! OOOWWWWWW!"

"What happened?", roared Gob.

"OH FUCKING HELL I JUST HEADBUTTED A JELLYFISH!"

Jericho came running out of the water wailing like a banshee and telling anyone within earshot how much it was stinging his face. Sadly for him the only person within earshot was Gob. The beach they had gone swimming on was totally deserted. There was no else to come to the rescue.

"You have to do something, Gob. It feels like my face is on fire and then someone peeled the skin off and dipped my face in vinegar."

"Oh man. What am I supposed to do?"

"Get a doctor or something!"

"You're mad, there's nothing around for miles. No doctors, nobody. Oh, but hang on a minute. I read somewhere before that if you get stung by a jellyfish you can take the sting out of it with urine."

"No, no fucking way man."

"Then you'll just have to put up with the pain."

"Oh fuck, oh fucking fuck. Oh fucking fucking fuckity fuck fuck."

"Well?"

"Oh fuck. Arse. Bollocks. Shit. Just do it."

So to cure his friend's jellyfish sting Gob took out his chopper and saturated his face. All. Over. His. Face.

It worked though and the pain went away. The trauma of it though saw them come home early having made a pact never to talk about it, never to reveal what had happened.

And me being the good friend that I am I haven't told a single soul. Just like I promised!


	19. Chapter 19

You know when you go to Tenpenny Towers and Gustavo or his security team always say, "Can I take your weapons for you sir?".

I fucking hate that. It makes me want to punch them in the throat. I don't want anyone to take my weapons. Firstly they'll simply put in on a weapons rack amongst all the other weapons and who knows what sort of rust and crap they'll pick up put in such close proximity to them. Alien blasters are rare to come by.

Secondly it means they touch my weapons and I don't want anyone to touch them. Thirdly, how do I know they won't, while I'm trading (which will probably involve me threatening to lead an army of ghouls through the place), rifle through the magazines and clips. They might even steal something.

Fourthly, what happens if some prick comes out from his dinner or drinking and the person says "Sorry, which weapon was yours again?" and they take the opportunity to replace their shabby machete with my obviously superior and higher quality boom-stick? What happens is I come out after finishing my meal, which really wasn't as good as they like to think, to find some disgusting old nail-gun where my finely tailored piece of wasteland destruction once hung and I go around punching as many people in the throat as I can.

So before you ask if you can take my weapons ask yourself if you want to be punched in the throat repeatedly. I'm sure the answer to that is no.

I remember one place (Rivet City) where the security jockey said it was a 'health and safety risk' for me to take my alien blaster into the trading area.

"Has my alien blaster, without my knowledge, been designed to fire without my permission?", I asked him.

"I doubt that", he said.

"Is my alien blaster made of plastic explosives or that stuff that old sofas used to be covered with that went up like a fucking Space Shuttle if you so much as dropped a spark on it?"

"No, it appears to be made of metal."

"Does it appear that my alien blaster is actually a coat of mischievous flames who are simply disguising themselves as metal but once they get into the trading area they will become flames again and run around setting light to everything?"

"No."

"Then how the fuck is my alien blaster a 'health and safety risk', if you don't mind me asking?"

"Erm...you might burn a whole through the side of the ship ..."

"Shut up."

"But really..."

You can understand why I had to punch him in the throat.

Don't touch my fucking alien blaster, you poxy fuckers.


	20. Chapter 20

"Did I ever tell you about the time I was a shoe repair man?" I asked Jericho, in Moriarty's the other night.

"What!? You? No!"

"It was just after Operation Broken Steel. The Enclave was already dead at that point. They just didn't know it."

"I remember. There was a real sense of desperation about them that day. They weren't on the offense at that point. They were defending fixed positions with what few troops they had left."

"War may never change but I can. I did. I needed something new after that. There's only so much death and destruction you can witness as one individual and still feel human."

"A bloody day and too bloody if you ask me. When both sides ran out of ammunition and charges it got up close and personal. I'm glad Fawkes was with us. I hate close quarters."

"Do you remember that kid in power armour that Fawkes killed with his warhammer? What was he? 18?"

"If even but you said it yourself. The Enclave was finished. They had lost most of their forces, thanks to Charon. At that point, I suppose they were putting raw recruits in the field."

"I think about that kid sometimes. He reminded me off myself when I left the vault. He was too bright-eyed and too inexperienced."

"I've never seen a Super Mutant cry before. I don't blame him for leaving afterwards. Funny how the most inhuman of us turned out to be the most compassionate."

"It was different at Project Purity. Atomic explosions don't leave bodies. We never got to experience the waste of human life because there was nothing left to feel for. At Adams Air Force Base there was that unique sense of disgust. Even the most hardened commander would balk at the butcher's bill. Brotherhood of Steel casualties or Enclave casualties it didn't matter."

"Was it worth it in the end?"

"Who knows if the cost outweighed the good? They just really wanted to hold on to that mobile base crawler."

"Who knows? Time will tell."

'_A pyric victory_!'

"Eh?"

"That's what Star Paladin Cross called it afterwards."

"So you decided to become a shoe repair man…"

"Yeah but I had to give it up."

"Why?"

"I found it sole destroying."

"I fucking hate you, 101."

"I know Jericho. I know."


End file.
